


One of Those Things

by Band_obsessed



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Hate Sex, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Size Kink, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28094541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Band_obsessed/pseuds/Band_obsessed
Summary: The sand is coarse beneath your knees. Digs in until you’re sure it’ll mark — scratch away at the skin until it’s raw. Still, it ain’t the roughest you’ve ever had, even with Wyatt’s hand pressed between your shoulder blades. He’s deceptively strong, pins you in place without breaking a sweat and you hear his arousal before you feel it — the way he pants against you like a dog, the way his hand tightens around your hip.You wouldn’t have pegged him for the rough type. Took one look at his face and were so damn sure you had him all puzzled out. There was a softness about it, cast a gentleness over his face like the first crest of dawn. But the last you saw of it it was as stony as flint, jaw set in a combination of irritation and arousal.Ain’t like he was the only one.ORA chance encounter at the saloon leads to more than you bargained for.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character/Reader, gender neutral - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	One of Those Things

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? Me writing something that _isn't_ fanfiction? It _is_ a western though, hence the writing style. This is inspired around a world I'm building for one of my university assignments, and that I obviously can't include but I wanted to get out anyway.
> 
> Title shamelessly taken from Taylor Swift's _cowboy like me_.

The sand is coarse beneath your knees. Digs in until you’re sure it’ll mark — scratch away at the skin until it’s raw. Still, it ain’t the roughest you’ve ever had, even with Wyatt’s hand pressed between your shoulder blades. He’s deceptively strong, pins you in place without breaking a sweat and you hear his arousal before you feel it — the way he pants against you like a dog, the way his hand tightens around your hip.

You wouldn’t have pegged him for the rough type. Took one look at his face and were so damn sure you had him all puzzled out. There was a softness about it, cast a gentleness over his face like the first crest of dawn. But the last you saw of it it was as stony as flint, jaw set in a combination of irritation and arousal. Ain’t like he was the only one.

It don’t really matter who started it. Who closed that distance first. All you know is one minute you were seconds away from showing him your fist and the next he had you pressed against the ground, a thigh pressing hard between your legs. His lips were softer than they’d looked, chapped and rough, but plush in a way you hadn’t been expecting. Tasted faintly of whiskey and when you breathed in all you could smell was leather and gunpowder.

“Hell, you don’t know when to leave it alone, do ya?”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a damn—“

The words turn to ash in your mouth as he unbuttons your fly with deft fingers, slips a hand inside to check your own arousal. Make sure he ain’t giving you nothing you don’t want. Christ. You’re half-tempted to kick him away there, turn your head and snap at him like a feral mutt. But he eases away a second later, pulls your trousers down your hips enough to bare you to the world. He’s damn lucky it’s warm out — hot enough to cook your skin right through if you ain’t careful and already you can feel your skin start to warm under the sun.

“You ain’t stickin’ nothing in me dry, Wyatt, or so help me God I’ll tear your damn throat out.”

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, darlin’.”

Slick fingers reach your entrance a second later, push until you give around his digits with a hiss. Christ, it’s good, stupidly good and you wonder if he’s just as big in other places. You don’t got time to wonder where he got the oil from. Don’t much care at this point either. Not when his fingers start moving, curl to reach the spot you want him the most. Your teeth find your forearm, bite down to muffle the sounds he’s drawing from you, the way he stretches you nothing shy of painful. Still. Impatience snaps at your heels, makes you bristle in irritation.

“Christ, Wyatt, you planning on takin’ your time back there? Ain’t like we got all damn day.”

He don’t stop. Teases you longer in punishment and you keen against your arm as the pads of his fingers drag across your walls, press against that one damn spot. Just when you’re about to lash out, to fight against his bulk and move this thing along yourself, he withdraws his fingers, wipes them against your thigh.

You snarl at him. “Fuck you.”

“Other way ‘round, sweetheart.” With a rustle of movement, his bare thighs are pressed to yours, a thick, blunt pressure building at your entrance and you push back against him, drag your arms against the ground. You don’t pay no mind to the grit digging at your skin, to the sweat dripping from your brow. Ain’t nothing matters more than the feeling of his erection sliding into you.

It takes a while just for the head to push in, slicked in barely enough oil to ease its way and you’re suddenly grateful he took so long to prep you, to make sure you were stretched enough for the width of him. ‘Cause Christ, he’s _wide._ He pushes into you and it feels, for a moment, like you’re gonna be split in two. Tear right down the seam.

He grunts behind you, fingers digging bruises into your hip and you bare your teeth in a grin, tighten around him just to hear him hiss in a combination of pleasure and pain.

“Don’t tell me you can’t get it in after all that.”

He growls at you, low and warning, pressing your chest further into the ground, into the dirt and the hot sand, and slams his hips forward until he’s buried to the hilt. There’s nothing but the weight of him inside of you for a minute. Nothing but the ringing your ears, the white of your vision. You don’t think you’ve ever been this _full_ before, this bursting. When he shifts the head of him presses against you, nudges painfully somewhere inside. But he angles his hips, makes sure that when he drags out it runs over the right areas, that when he pushes back in his tip glides right over that spot. It sends a bolt of pleasure sharper than a whip down your spine, has you clenching around him, gritting your teeth at the burn that soon gives into pleasure.

His other hand — the one not keeping your nose to the dirt — reaches round your front, makes sure you’re getting as much out of this as he is. You ain’t gonna tell him that he don’t need to do that, that you’re just about there on his cock alone. He don’t need that boost — his head is big enough already. Both of them.

“Christ,” he groans, leaning down until his chest is flush against your back, until his beard scratches against your ear. “And t’think I was just gonna let you walk away.”

Your tongue is thick in your mouth, heavy and clumsy like you’ve been drinking too much but you find the words anyway. Spit them into the air between you. “You weren’t gonna ‘let’ me do nothin’. I do what I want.”

When he laughs his breath trickles across your face, down your neck in a warm gust. It’s a nice sound — one you wouldn’t mind hearing again but that ain’t gonna happen. Not when it’s attached to a man like him.

“That your way of sayin’ you were just as desperate for this?”

“Damn you to Hell, Wyatt. Don’t act like you know anythin—“

He draws out all the way, pops the head of his cock past your entrance and you keen at the loss, push your hips back against him before you can think better of it.

“You gotta ask nice, darlin’. I think I deserve that, at least.”

He runs the tip of his erection across your hole, gathers slick and oil before teasing you with it, pushes the barest hint inside before retracting completely.

“You deserve nothin’ but a bullet between the eyes.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, voice thick in your ear. “You gonna be the one to put it there?”

“Keep your cock out of me any longer and we’ll damn well find out.”

His hand still teases your own arousal, fingers tracing maddening circles, half-formed shapes against your flesh. It ain’t enough to get you over the edge. Ain’t enough to do anything other than rile you up.

“Beg for me.”

You reach, in a fit of anger, for your holster, scramble for the grip of your pistol. Wyatt’s hand closes over it before you can reach it, growling in warning. You pay him no mind, buck up against his grip, squirm out from underneath him. Your fist barely connects with his jaw before he’s caught it, before his eyes meet yours, glinting carnal and hungry.

You ain’t sure who moves first but your teeth clash together, blood spilling between your tongues as your lip splits against the sharp edge of his canine. He doesn’t try to flip you back over, just pushes your back down against the ground and cages you in, his cock nudging your entrance with every grind of your hips, every useless attempt to get his hands back on you, get him back inside you.

“ _Beg_ ,” he snarls and you rear up like a horse, knock your head against his with as much force as you’re capable of. It stuns him, for a moment. Makes him shake his head, blink the sweat from his eyes as his hair clings to his forehead. It’s not the whole upper-hand but it’s enough. Enough for your legs to wind around his thighs, push his hips down at the same time you press up. For his cock to slide back into your entrance, spread you wide and full.

It don’t feel any smaller the second time, but you’re used to the burn now, to the stretch that makes your eyes roll back, your nails dig into his skin like cactus spines. When he comes back to himself fully he ruts into you, pounds you into the ground with such force your back scrapes along the ground, shirt being torn in dozens of different places against the grit.

Neither of you are gonna last long. Not with the rhythm he’s set — frantic, frenzied, like he’s starving for it. Like you both are. He don’t reach for your arousal this time, just uses one of his large hands to press your wrists together above your head, the other resting high on your waist — tugging your body back down onto his cock every time he slams back in.

Blood pools in your mouth, settles between your teeth from where your lip split and you swallow it down around a moan, around a whine that you refuse to let escape. He don’t need to know how damn good he feels — how damn tight he’s got your stomach coiling.

His hips begin to falter, stilling for a beat every time he bottoms out. You can feel him starting to pulse, to twitch inside you. Feel him getting bigger if that’s even damn possible. He don’t stop, though. Just thrusts harder, deeper, screws his eyes shut like he’s in pain and only then to do you let your mouth fall open, let your eyes roll back. Only now when he can’t see you — can’t see how goddamn close you are to cumming around his cock, around the thick girth of him, stretching you wide in a way that makes you damn near feral.

He gains speed, snaps his hips back in just as soon as he pulls back. He’s given up fucking you properly, just slams the last few inches of his cock in, shoves against you as hard as he’s able.

It’s all you need.

In a rush you spasm around him, your back arching off the ground like a man possessed, mouth open and panting, a soundless scream on your lips. He growls, breathless and low, the sound rumbling from his chest.

You don’t gotta tell him to pull out. Don’t gotta threaten him with your teeth should he dare spill inside you. His seed shoots across your stomach, his hand leaving your waist to work furiously over his length, to wring every last drop from his cock, glistening and flushed. He don’t even try to aim away from your clothes. You see the smirk tugging at his lips as his spend seeps into the fabric of your shirt, clings the material to your skin.

For a minute neither of you move. Just lay there, panting, on the ground. You ain’t even hidden that well, pulled over behind one of the old buildings that don’t look like it’s been used in decades. Since way back before the war, even. Then he pulls back, sits back on his haunches like an eager dog and _Christ_ even soft he’s still bigger than you would’ve ever thought — thick and flaccid against his thigh.

Something in his gaze softens — gives around the edges. His eyes fall to your mouth, to where your bottom lip was split. “You ain’t hurt, are you?”

It throbs, pulses blood every now and again but you shake your head anyway. Push yourself to your elbows and grimace when oil drips from your entrance, runs down you thighs to the ground below. He follows the movement, throat bobbing like a man dying from thirst and you snap your legs shut before he can leer any further.

Your shirt is half-ruined — torn and soiled. It cleans off your thighs well enough. Ain’t like you can use it for anything else. The sun’s gonna be a damn nightmare to deal with, though. You reckon your shoulders are gonna burn before sundown. You don’t even wanna think ‘bout the cold of the night.

“Come with me,” Wyatt says, offering you a hand. You bat it away, stand on shaky legs and finish buttoning your trousers. At least they ain’t ruined. Scuffed to hell and back, but still wearable. And your holster’s still attached, pistol hanging heavy at your hip.

“I don’t need your damn castoffs, Wyatt. Thought I made that clear.”

“Then it’s a good thing I ain’t offering you none. I’ve just got a spare tent, s’all.”

It’s the best offer you’ve gotten in months. Would beat camping out behind rocks at any rate, at trudging along in boots that you’ve already walked right through the soles of. Which is why you don’t take it, turn your back and snatch your hat from the ground before he can grab it for you.

“You that desperate to get your dick wet again?”

You hear him stutter behind you. Don’t need to turn to know he’s got blushing — turned that same damn shade of red he had at the saloon. Christ, it’s pretty. Makes you wanna punch his teeth in.

“Ah, hell. It ain’t like that, honest. ‘Sides, it ain’t just me. I got a whole team, if you’d believe — we got a spare horse and all.”

You stop at the mention of a horse, feet aching up a storm against the ground, blisters burning at your heel. Christ, what you wouldn’t give to get off your feet for a day or two. To ride instead of walk.

Anyway, it ain’t like you gotta stick around. Can take the horse at first dawn and ride off before any of them know you’re missing. He’s only got a name. Not even a real one, at that. Ain’t nothing he could do to track you down even if he wanted to.

When you turn around his coat is hanging from his fingers, dangling like a white flag in the wind. He’s got that same damned smile on him, the same one from back at the bar, earnest and open and _smug_. Like he already knew what you were gonna say.

You’re half-tempted to deny him. To shoot down his offer just to watch his damn face fall. But Christ, you may be thick but even you ain’t stupid enough to refuse a horse. A _tent._

You snatch his coat from his hand, slip your arms through the leather and fasten it tight around your chest. It’s boiling, under all that fur. You wouldn’t be surprised if you caught a damn fever by sundown. “You got the coin for a new shirt, too?”

“I’m sure I can work somethin’ out. An’ in the meantime, my coat don’t look half bad on you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Please consider leaving comments and kudos if you enjoyed.


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